Desperation
by Ryuuko1
Summary: In the beginning, they were little things...


**Author**: I feel it is necessary to warn you: THIS IS NOT A FEEL-GOOD FIC. It is dark, it is depressing, and I have no idea how I managed to write it without crying. I hope I haven't scared you away. -_-b

**Disclaimer**: Not mine.

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In the beginning, it was little things. Behavioral tics that made no sense, but felt natural anyway. Sam didn't pay it much attention—afterall, he had just survived a giant alien battle. Surely he was allowed a few oddities, especially after handling the thing that was the very _life_ for Cybertronians.

Over time, it evolved into something...more, but not alarming. A certain way of phrasing things, an odd thought here or there, emotional reactions that were inconsistent with his history. But, hey, he was under stress—high school wasn't exactly _easy_ and he was prey for a lot of bullies.

The day _that_ changed, Sam became concerned.

It was a normal day, as far as Sam was concerned—once again he was backed into a corner by the school meatheads, who were giving him that look that promised one of two things: a painful beating or some quality time in a locker. Just as he was about to resign himself to his fate, a bubble of sheer _hatred_ bloomed within him, wiping out all thoughts of passivity. Sam couldn't've told anyone how he _knew_ how to fight, just that...it was natural. It was _what he did_. Which was a complete lie, but the smug sense of satisfaction at seeing the boys who usually tormented him running away with broken noses, crying, and some with wet crotches was a wonderful thing.

When he came down from the high, he had looked at himself differently, as if he was in the body of a stranger. He had never taken a _day_ of self-defense in his life, and yet he had known _exactly_ where to hit so that it would _hurt_...and not just now, but _later_, too. They would _suffer_, as he had suffered.

The very thought was terrifying.

Slowly, his appearance began to change. His hair went from being curly to smooth and fine, which was against all his genetics. His voice became deeper, somehow more _liquid_, beautiful and terrifying to hear. His personality remained more or less the same, however, which was a relief to the teen. There had to be a reason for all this—maybe the All-Spark had something to do with it.

Yeah. Probably. That _had to_ be the explanation.

The changes slowed, then stopped, leaving him transformed, in a manner, but still very much Samuel James Witwicky. He relaxed, allowing himself to get caught up in school work and the quickly-approaching summer.

The summer passed without incident, and school started up again. Unfortunately, with the beginning of school came the return of the strangeness. Sam could no longer blame it on Mission City—it had already been almost a year, afterall—and so was baffled and scared. He dared not mention it to Bee, since the Autobot would probably drag him to see Ratchet, and his life was complicated enough dealing with just _one_ alien robot.

So he remained quiet about his..._situation_.

Until he began forgetting things.

No, forgetting was the wrong word. More like...missing. He would fall asleep in class and instead of waking up with the bell would instead return to consciousness two periods later.

Mikaela told him that sometimes he would seem...different. Like he wasn't really...well, who he was. As if it was someone else in the driver seat of Sam's body. Sam waved it away, saying that it was nothing, but he could tell Mikaela didn't believe him. She also seemed to dislike, or, at least, _distrust_, who this _other-Sam_ was, considering she broke up with him a week later, although they _did_ remain friends.

The most terrifying times, though, were when he just wouldn't...wake up. He'd return to consciousness and realize that he had lost _an entire day_...only to discover that he had indeed been up and about and _doing._ His parents were starting to become concerned, since it seemed like Sam almost had two separate personalities. Sam continued to insist it was nothing and that he was perfectly stable, until he was brought to a psychiatrist who was an adept hypnotist, and therefore might be able to discover for sure if Sam was harboring multiple personalities.

Sam submitted, albeit grudgingly, because he just wanted to _prove_ that he wasn't crazy, thankyouverymuch.

The problem was, it turned out that he was and that, of all people, his other Self declared him to be Megatron, and had nearly managed to kill the poor psychiatrist.

Sam had steadfastly refused medication, saying over and over that he could control him, that he'd be fine, it was _his_ body afterall. It was just a matter of discipline.

Until it turned out it wasn't, that not only was Megatron _there_, he was there _to stay._ This revelation was courtesy of Ratchet, who Bumblebee had brought him to once his alternate Self was identified. Ratchet ran a few tests, and even managed to provoke Megatron directly—who actually did some damage to rather delicate circuitry in Ratchet's arm, regardless of his current state. The medic, once he had finished repairing himself, had dropped quite a bomb on Sam—he was sharing a soul with Megatron.

The hypothesis was that the All Spark couldn't bear to see it used to kill one of its own creations, and so had simply transferred Megatron's spark/Self/soul into the nearest life-form—namely, Sam. This meant that Sam wasn't alone in his skin, meant that his very _being_ was half of the creature who had tried to kill him, and that there was no way—_no way—_he could get rid of the Decepticon inside him.

The declaration was a condemnation. No-one looked at him the same way again, everyone afraid that at some moment, Megatron might wrest control away from his human host and remain in control for the rest of Sam's natural life. Afterall, Megatron's personality was quite assertive, and he had probably only bided his time to figure out what had happened and what he could do to change it. Sam hated the suspicion in their gazes, the way they tensed whenever he spoke, whenever he was just _there_. It was as if he was a walking time-bomb, and no-one knew when it would reach zero.

He was forbidden from going to school, learning via taped lessons. He wasn't allowed onto the Autobot base for fear that Megatron would be able to access intel that would give the Decepticons an edge. He was allowed to _see_ his friends and family, but never _be_ with them.

Sam couldn't live that way. He _couldn't._ If he hadn't been insane before, he was becoming so now. Sam's nights were sleepless as he fought to remain in control against the consciousness that was growing ever stronger, nibbling at the edges of his thoughts, whispering dark promises to him, if only he would allow Megatron to reign over him...

It was on one of these sleepless nights that Sam came to a conclusion that should have been obvious previously—Megatron was a part of him. Megatron was a part of _his soul_. In order to influence—sufficiently—the physical world, it needed a physical shell to use. So...if he killed himself, Megatron would die with him, this time for good.

Hey, he might even be dragged into hell, since that was apparently were suicides went. Thankfully he wasn't all that religious so he wasn't sure that was the case—even though he secretly hoped it was. That way Megatron, too, would suffer as Sam had suffered.

Sam was allowed little things in his room, nothing that could hurt an Autobot or person—or, at least, not enough to be _fatal_. Pens. Paper. Plastic things. Nothing with a sharp edge. Still, there was enough that, if one was creative, one could commit suicide.

Sam made sure that none of the ink in his pens were 'non-toxic,' meaning that if ingested, bad things would happen. Vomiting at least, hopefully death if he drank enough ink and ate enough plastic. He'd just have to override his gag reflex.

Sam felt strangely at peace with his decision. Sure, the Autobots were trying to find ways with which to extract Megatron's spark from Sam's soul, or perhaps find a way to medicate Sam to the extent that Megatron couldn't break through, but after the first year had passed, Sam had the feeling that it was a hopeless endeavor.

Death would solve this problem, though. It would solve their constant fear of him and would also remove Megatron from being a problem ever again.

Sam was never left without surveillance, but at night it was purely thermal, since they _did_ hope that he would get _some_ sleep. They were still quite vigilant, but they, too, were capable of being tired, and therefore distracted.

Sam hoped it was one of those nights when he put the first pen in his mouth and bit down, chewing until it broke open, blue ink coating his tongue. He swallowed the ink, and plastic shards once he had broken the body of the pen down enough. He felt Megatron beating against his consciousness, but his mental walls remained strong with the knowledge that his plan would probably work.

He was on his third pen when he began silently vomiting, purple bile coating the floor before him, chunks of plastic and dinner floating in the mess. He began to feel dizzy and disoriented, but still fought off Megatron's attempts at takeover.

He had just broken the ink out of the fourth pen when someone rushed in the door. He idly wondered what he looked like, if he had blue spit dribbling down his chin, soaking into his T-shirt, if his puke was being absorbed into his jeans. If he had lost control over other body functions. He fought against someone who tried to yank the fourth pen out of his mouth, but he figured he must've bitten them, too, from how they backed away quickly, holding their hand.

Sam swallowed hard, keeping the next wave of vomit down, hoping that the pens and their ink would do too much damage to be undone.

There was more movement around him, but Sam was oddly disconnected from it all. None of it mattered...as long as he had been successful...

Successful in what?

Sam blinked and found himself facing a _very_ irate Decepticon.

_Idiot human! Anything is better than death!_

_Not how I was living,_ Sam replied calmly. _And now...now you, _too_, are gone for good._

The Decepticon roared his desperate defiance, but Sam knew he had accomplished whatever he had meant to by how darkness crept onto the edges of his vision, how its tendrils wrapped around Megatron and pulled him down to his knees, even as he fought them.

Sam didn't bother fighting. He was too tired to fight. Too _relieved_ to fight.

It wasn't imprisonment...

It was release.

–

"We've lost him."

"And to think that we've just found a way that would have let Sam _always_ be in control..."

–


End file.
